


An Odd Case of Synesthesia

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bad Parenting, Historical Inaccuracies, I'll add more tags eventually bear with me here, M/M, Out of Character, fluff if you squint, no one is okay and that's okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-14 08:39:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11204400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Whenever Thomas reflects on his life, he sees colors. Throughout the innocence and the hurt and the growing up and the regret, to him it's just a portion of the rainbow. Still, he's never quite found the shade to match Alexander's eyes.alternatively(and less goddamn corny): everyone needs a hug





	1. Green

**Author's Note:**

> Heya my dudes, this is a severe WIP fic that I'm not too keen on, but it'll end up in the bin if I don't do something with it. I hope y'all enjoy my nonsense verses.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> when everything was a-okay

Green

"Thomas!" The boy called, strands of his auburn brown hair obscuring his face as the wind slid through it. Thomas turned to face him and was met with a beaming smile, accompanied by a whole body pulsing with electricity in every movement, energy flowing from fingertips to toes. He wasn't able to stand still for just a second to wait for the other boy to catch up before he took off sprinting toward their tallest oak tree as fast as his lanky legs would carry him. Thomas laughed, and urged his ever-tiring body to reciprocate in a slower, less agile jog.

"Hurry up! You run like ma grand-mère!" He heard him shout from a few yards ahead. The words echoed through the empty orchard, which would have felt isolating if it hadn't been Alexander's voice, which was bright enough to cause a sunrise amidst a storm. 

"Did your grandmother even run?" He huffed out, catching his breath enough to lift a hand and run it though his wild hair. Alexander laughed, and plopped himself on a protruding tree root. "Exactly. She didn't," he said, smirking up at him. Thomas giggled, and scooted to the left of his friend. Alexander nuzzled his head on Thomas' shoulder and slowly closed his eyes shut. "You're warm."

"Well maybe that's 'cause you're forcing me to do physical activity," Thomas retorted, cautiously leaning his head against the top of the younger boy's. Alexander snorted rather embarrassingly at the remark, the corners of his lips curving upward contently.

They sat there, under the broad oak tree for what felt like hours, days, years, alone in their own little secluded existence, living off just knowing the other one is there with them. After a while, Alexander grabbed Thomas' hand into his. 

Thomas flushed. He immediately shot open his eyes to scan if anyone like his father was around. "Hey?" Alexander sounded concerned. "You okay?" 

Thomas eyed his hand intertwined with his best friend's, the sweat of both their palms pressed against each other, backs of hands against Thomas' seamless pastel capris and Alexander's torn and patched, dirty shorts. "Don't you think that--" he motioned his head toward their hands, "--isn't a good idea? Like, with my father being somehow always near and all?" 

Alexander merely smiled, and gripped Thomas' hand tighter. "Why do you ask?" He questioned, snuggling in a little farther, inadvertently closing every microscopic gap between them. Thomas felt himself heat up even more. "Just that..." He was at a loss of words. 

His father had shown a pronounced distaste in his friend, ever since Thomas had accidentally brought up his name over dinner. He hated how capitalistic his father was, how everything to him was about how much money they could earn from it. And when he learned that his son's only friend was a ragged orphan boy, he wasn't pleased. 

They snuck off a lot, and soon they started meeting at Thomas' family orchard, which spiked a rise from his father once he found out. He promoted one of the maids, Ms. Benedict, to keep close eye on Thomas, monitor whenever he went in and out of the house and where he went from there.

Thomas hated it, it was like having a bodyguard who, to him, was more of a stalker, cause he sure as hell didn't want her there and didn't need his protection from his own friend. 

In result of this, Thomas and Alexander would play childish pranks on the maid, like the one time Alexander saved up on Halloween to buy little fake fingers. Thomas insisted against it, but Alexander was never one to listen, especially when it went against his ambitions. Thomas reluctantly agreed with the prank, slipping a multitude of fingers into one of the giant cakes she baked once a week, all for herself. Alexander always got pissy about the starving children in Africa who could've eaten that fat oaf's weekly cake, when in reality he himself was the size of a twig. 

When Ms. Benedict took a closed-eye bite into what Alexander called "authentic finger food", she screamed loud enough for the whole courtyard to hear. Thomas and Alexander, who were just outside the kitchen door, hightailed it all the way to the garden while dying of laughter. 

Ms. Benedict was never seen on Jefferson property again. 

"You know my father does not like you, especially after what we pulled on poor Ms. Benedict," he mentioned sternly to the other boy. "Not like she didn't deserve it," he heard Alexander mutter into his side. Thomas sighed.

"Just chill, just for another few minutes maybe. For me." 

On one hand, he had a cute boy pressed against his side and holding his hand, and he could very well continue to sit there without a care in the world and his friend by his side.

On the other, he could do exactly that, and get caught.

He didn't want to think of what would happen if he got caught.

"Thomas?" Alexander's plea snapped him back into reality. His eyes met the huge, rich amber eyes of the other boy's. Staring into them made him feel guilty for what he was probably going to end up doing. Those eyes, those gigantic puppy-dog eyes were his only anchor in life, yet could be his only impending danger too.

He told himself to let go, to scurry up and make an excuse to leave. To continue to run away from his never-ending first world problems. But then, he heard a whisper, afraid more than anything: "don't go."

He couldn't look Alexander in the face. He averted his eyes to the leaves above them, how the sunlight ever so slightly seeped through the fluorescent green leaves. He felt drowsy.

And so his body didn't listen to what his mind was yelling, and he followed his unconscious thoughts, until he himself was rendered unconscious, his head now laying atop Alexander's shoulder, hand in hand. 

And there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaand that's chapter one. I reckoned I'd be nice and give y'all some tooth-rotting fluff to completely throw off your emotions for when ya get to chapter 2:) thanks for readin !!
> 
> ps if there's any obvious grammar or punctuation mistakes, for the love of god please inform me before I look like a massive idiot haha


	2. Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex has some problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to angst part 1 my friends

Blue, 4 years later

Alexander's cries became in earshot the farther he ran down the narrow gravel path. Puddles splashed underneath his hurried steps, rocks crunched beneath him. All of the gym he'd been doing helped him with the endurance, but he still had to focus on his erratic breathing to push through. He had to remember who he was running for. 

As the dismal little dock came into view, so did his friend. He was thrashing around at the air, cursing and yelling and practically ripping his hair out. Thomas ran faster, until his loud steps creaked on the collapsing wood, alerting Alexander of his presence. 

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!" Alexander shouted out toward the bay, letting the particles of water from the river and the sky fall on him without a care. He was soaking, and shivering so violently it looked like he would fling himself right off of the dock if she shook more.

"Alexander, you have to go home--"

"Where is home, Thomas?" He growled back, a raging storm as vehement as the one swirling around them in his eyes. Thomas cringed at his exasperated tone. He wasn't used to this.

"Where, Thomas?" He repeated, the words seething through his teeth. "Not in Nevis, not in St. Croix, not in that shitty foster home, and now I can't even stay at my cousin's ratty-ass apartment because he just fucking killed himself!" He exclaimed, to Thomas, to the bay, to nothing and everything at once. 

He threw his cap to the ground, and collapsed to his knees, choking on a sob. He sat there, staring at the damp wood beneath him, his unrestrained tears just adding to the dampness. 

Somewhere in Thomas' mind he was thinking about how cliché all of this was. Watching his best friend break down in the pouring rain, just like in a movie. A really depressing and shitty movie. 

The thunder seemed to rouse him from his thoughts, the sound booming through the air like canon fire. Alexander noticeably startled, eyes widening. Storms. He was afraid of storms, of course goddammit, why didn't he remember? 

Alexander trembled, face contorting into a fearful expression. He slowly reached back for his cap, wrung it out and shoved it back in his pocket. The efforts were probably useless, seeing as all his articles of clothing were now drenched anyway. Thomas tore his eyes off of his friend, and looked down at himself, clothes just as wet.

Alexander stayed on his knees, and made no effort to get up and go somewhere else less wet and loud and more comforting. Instead, he kneeled there with his eyes closed, most likely lost in his own thoughts. Tears continued to absentmindedly trickle down his eyes, and even Thomas could see them through the rain. They were glossier, and stuck to his face like an imprint of what was going on with him and the world that crashed down around him. Thomas stepped closer.

"What are you doing?" He asked. 

"Knitting," Alexander deadpanned. "What does it look like? I'm praying," he said bluntly, voice threatening to crack but it didn't.

"Oh," Thomas replied lamely. "Oh?" Alexander repeated, like he expected more. Thomas didn't have anything else to offer. "Oh," he said again, nodding. If Alexander was put off, he didn't show it. He just continued to shut down, concentrating on the sound of the pouring rain hitting the metal rims of the dock. 

Thomas carefully approached Alexander, as if he were a ticking bomb that he didn't want to set off. Slowly, he fell to his knees besides Alexander. The only reaction he got from this was a distinctive furrow of his brows, most likely in confusion. Thomas didn't pay thought to it, just mirrored Alexander by closing his eyes, and letting his head hang down low toward his chest. 

"What are you doing?" Alexander asked, incredulous.

Thomas smiled. "Knitting." 

Thomas cracked opened his eyes for a split second, just so he could witness the faint smile on Alexander's face for the first time in what felt like years. It was strained, almost as if he was out of practice. Still, it was a sight he missed. 

They continued to sit there in complete silence, just praying. Thomas found it hard to pray, for the whole time he was more concerned about what Alexander was praying for. Probably for a lot of things. Home, was what Thomas initially thought. He was speechless when Alexander threw the "where is home, Thomas?" question at him, solely because even he didn't know. He would give up everything he had to know, to have the comfort in being able to think that he's home somewhere, wherever that may be. That he's home, and he's safe.

The minutes of agreeable silence blurred together. They let themselves get more and more uncomfortably cold and wet until they didn't even feel anymore. A pessimistic thought plagued Thomas' mind. Alexander's probably not even worried if he dies of hypothermia right now. The thought disturbed him enough to get him to jump back onto his feet. Alexander's eyes snapped open and body twisted around the second Thomas rose. He opened his mouth, but Thomas cut him off. 

"We should go." 

"We've only been sitting here for like 3 minu--" 

"It's been half an hour, Alexander," Thomas pressed. "You need to dry off and warm up."

"Speak for yourself," he said, finally lifting himself off the dock. "You're wearing less layers than me."

"Well," Thomas thought for a second. "My coat has fuzzy stuff inside."

Alexander blinked at him, eyebrows raised. "'Course it does."

Thomas sighed. "Let's not waste more time insulting my clothing--" "--I wasn't insulting it--" "--and actually get out of here," Thomas interrupted, tugging his friend away from the dock, and back to his car. His new car, a Prius, he got when he turned sixteen last month. He felt sick looking at the car and then looking back at Alexander, indefinitely poverty-stricken and now homeless. How could two people living in two completely different worlds somehow join like this? 

"Earth to Thomas? We gonna get in your, your... Jesus Christ, your fucking Prius, or what?" Alexander urged, staring at him expectingly.

Thomas blinked. "Yeah yeah, of course." 

They both hurried away from the dock, away from the hours of tears and prayers, and into the empty parking lot that held a total of one silver car. A Prius. 

Alexander threw himself into the car as soon as Thomas unlocked it, and slammed the door shut, a long breath escaping from his lips as he did so. Thomas wasn't the only one running away. 

Alexander stripped of his raincoat, revealing his equally as soaked blue thermal underneath. He glanced down at himself, at the growing wet spots on the shiny black seats, and frowned at Thomas apologetically.

Thomas waved his hand down reassuringly. "Don't worry about it."

It was only when he put the car in reverse and started backing out of the parking spot when he realized that he had no clue where he's going. Alexander seemed to have read the thought right off his countenance, and timely asked, "where are we going?" 

Thomas hesitated. Where were they going? 

"Home," he settled with.

"And where's that?" Alexander questioned, the quizzical look on his face refusing to cease.

Thomas held the wheel still for a second, pausing once more. Goddamn Alexander Hamilton and his goddamn questions. He thought before he turned the blinker on, ultimately deciding which way to go. He looked at his sleeves. Soaked. They could both probably use a dry about now. 

"It could be here, just with me, if you wanted it to be. But for our sake right now, it'll be the laundromat," he stated. 

Alexander let out a small huff at that, and that was all Thomas needed to know that it was okay. They'd be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good ending to a bad start don't ya think?
> 
> psa: considering not posting chapter 3 and putting the whole thing up for grabs, but I might post it if it gets any attention so yeah. thanks for readin !!


	3. Yellow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More feelings are displayed in unhealthy ways.

Yellow, 2 years later

18 years. Thomas had lived 18 entire years of his life, and he didn't even savor a single moment in any of them. 

He was stuck in an endless cycle of torturous school and torturous home life for so long that he felt lost when he graduated, like he didn't have a clue how to spend his time anymore. He knew eventually his dad would boot him off to some college elsewhere, probably law school, and he'd have his life set out on the table before him without getting to pick the cuisine. 

That's what it felt like as he sat down on the mahogany seats, the ugly floral cushions barely worn from him never actually eating with his father at the dining table since he was 12. He avoided any eye contact with him on this particular day, instead twiddling his fork between his fingers in anticipation of the following conversation. He felt sick before he even started his meal. It was salmon, he observed. It's been so long since he's had a genuine conversation with his dad, he doesn't even blame him for forgetting that he hates salmon. 

"Well son," Peter started gruffly. The wrinkles that he'd had since he turned 30 got deeper and deeper every passing year. Thomas figured it was because of himself. He glanced up to meet the familiar, wrinkled face reeking seriousness. "I think it's time we had a talk." Thomas nearly smiled at the irony. You think, his mind commented sarcastically.

"It's dawned on me that this is in fact your 18th birthday," he continued, not sparing his son any time to let out the breath that he'd been holding, "and to me," he stopped abruptly. "To us," he corrected, smiling like he was on a goddamn infomercial trying to get Thomas to buy whatever bullshit he was selling. "--that means we must be seriously considering your options for your future." Eminent doom, Thomas corrected internally. Externally, he nodded. His inner peanut gallery was being extra Extra today.

"In short, I think for your sake, it'd be best if you attended Berangaria for their three-year law program."

Whoop. There it was. 

"Berangaria?" Thomas exclaimed suddenly. "Like, École de droit Berangaria, in France?" 

"Well yes, I'm not aware of any other Berangarias," he joked. 

"But--but why?" 

Peter's lips flattened, as if he was expecting this very rejection. "Well, I know there's dozens of better law schools out here in the states, but Berangaria seems like a good idea for you, son. I know you've been aching to to travel to France since you've started practicing French, and that your grades and testing scores had been suffering," he paused, eyes striking him with disappointment, "so colleges like Harvard were off the table. I'm trying to settle for something you'd want. Some new territory, fresh air, son." The way he repeated "son" made him think that it was more for him to convince Thomas that he is still his all-powerful father rather than to reassure him.

Thomas was taken aback. He let the words sink into his brain a little. His food had gone cold by the time he looked back up. 

Beat.

"Three years?" He asked, timid. 

"Yes, only three years. For now at least, it's enough to get you on your feet. Once you're stable, you could probably take a few more years for good measure in order to secure a more powerful position. Don't you want to be able to bring home the big bucks eventually, Thomas?" 

When he met his father's dark brown eyes, absent of any light and comprised of just hardness, he felt just like the scared little boy he used to be. Scared of my own father, he thought. How pathetic.

It's true, though.

"I suppose you're right," he replied lamely.

"Suppose?" Peter chuckled. "You've got to learn to have more enthusiasm! You're going to college, son, in France. What's holding you back?" He looked at Thomas, expectingly.

Alexander, he thought.

He tried to come up with other things, but was unsuccessful.

His father's composure stiffened. "What is holding you back, Thomas?" 

His heart beat a mile a minute. He glanced around, racking his brain for something. 

"It isn't that peasant boy, is it?" 

Too slow.

"N-No, father," he stuttered.

"How many times do I have to tell you... That boy is nothing but trouble for those with the opportunities and capabilities like yours. I know his kind, and they're dirty savages," Peter sneered. He took in a breath to continue, but Thomas cut him off.

"I assure you, father, that I do not converse with that boy anymore," he stated. Guilty for letting the words slip his lips.

Peter's eyes scanned him for faultiness, but eased after a while. "Good," he started, "then you should be elated for your extended trip. I expect you to be packed and ready in one week's time." 

It was final.

Thomas' nodding only ceased when he exited the dining hall and took a languid trudge up the stairs as his mind raced. He let himself sulk in the dull yellow light, the lamp flickering across the hall. He felt like it was imitating him, a spark once brand new had been drained of everything that kept it going. 

The light died by the time he opened the grand door leading to his bedroom. Probably another symbolic fucking sign from God, he thought. He tried to comprehend what the hell just happened and where he was going to go from there while he packed up some clothes instead of sobbing into his pillow and whatnot. 

Thomas' List of Understanding consisted of:

\- He was going to college  
\- He was going to France   
\- He had to start packing  
\- He fucking hates his father   
\- Oh god Alexander oh god--

Shit. He almost forgot about that until he heard the familiar rustle outside his window. 

Thomas shoved the briefcase full of the various clothing that he threw together in a disgruntled fit under his bed, and rushed toward his window. Outside he saw Alexander, scaling his way up the metal grid that supported the shrubbery on the side of the house. Eventually, after the occasional fight with some thorns, he managed to steady himself on the rooftop tiles. Thomas reckoned that he'd have to have some beach-ball sized dude nuts to do that without breaking a sweat.

Alexander smiled when he saw Thomas waiting for him on the other side. 

"Sorry for coming in through the window," Alexander said, words muffled by the glass between them. Again, Thomas added mentally. "Dreadful etiquette, I know," Alexander chuckled, and gently knocked on the glass. "You gonna let me in or just stand there? Cause honestly it's getting pretty chilly out he-" 

"I'll let you in if you learn to stop complaining for once," Thomas retorted, while blatantly struggling with the window lock. Stupid childproof sliders. "And seeing as you're the one barging into my humble abode, you should also be learning some better mannerisms, young ma--"

"Oh will you shut it?" Alexander smirked, and stared expectingly at Thomas, who just met his gaze with a smile. 

Finally, he pulled the slider out from the frame and pushed the window open. Alexander frantically forced his way inside, jittery from the adrenaline on the climb and the cold of the breeze. Thomas always found it interesting how Alexander would always take in his surroundings, spending a good 5 seconds looking around the place, even if he's been there countless times. "Nothing's changed I see," he cut the silence. 

"Did you expect it to?"

"Well," Alexander started, taking a seat on his bed, smile fading. "You haven't talked to me in so long now, it's like you've been avoiding me."

"God no," Thomas blurted out unintentionally. He meant it though. "It's just been difficult."

"Yeah yeah, I get it. With you graduating and all... Looking at colleges, I assume. Good little schoolboy Thomas Jefferson packing it off to Yale, and oh, how his father sheds a singular manly tear at his long-awaited departure. A tragedy in itself," Alexander joked, hands flying everywhere as he went on his dramatic tangent read in his dramatic damsel-in-distress voice. Thomas laughed along, but at the irony, because it was just the opposite of how Alexander pictured it to be. 

"I wish," Thomas mumbled with still a trace of a smile on his lips.

"Hm?" Alexander raised his eyebrows quizzically. "Whatdya mean?" 

Deep breath. "I'm studying abroad in France for three years for Berangaria's undergrad law program." 

And there went the second "Whoop. There it was" moment of the night.

"Sorry, what?" Alexander asked, eyes practically bulging from their sockets. He was still smiling from the previous banter, but it was strained. Like he was afraid he'd lose it now.

"École de droit Berangaria. In France. Three years," he broke it up. Sometimes he felt like he was trying to convey information to a two-year-old while conversing with Alexander, but he knew this case was different. He didn't expect Alexander to take it lightly.

But this wasn't his expected reaction either. 

He's crying. Thomas has seen Alexander cry many times before, but he still never gets used to it. He's seen his mother cry, he's seen a plethora of people on TV cry, hell, he's even seen Ms. Benedict cry. But he'll never get used to what feeling stirs inside him when he sees Alexander cry.

It's partly because his cry is different. Most people, when they cry, it carries out through their whole face. Their eyebrows furrow, their face gets red and contorted, and their mouth will quaver, usually trying to suppress sound. But Alexander's cry is almost robotic. Tears will flow from his eyes like puffy red fountains, but other than that there's no discernible trait that matches an average cry-face. His voice however, is a dead giveaway. It cracks like a twelve year old on a roller coaster. But one strange thing that Thomas hasn't noticed until now, just while staring at him and remaining immobile, is that his teeth chatter. 

Alexander sat there, eyes dripping, and expression generally indecipherable without the context of him being in pain and in joking disbelief of what's causing the pain: Thomas. And for some unknown reason, his teeth rapidly chattered as if they were somehow powered by the waterworks. Thomas filed it in the "Mysterties of Alexander Hamilton" folder in his brain. 

"So... Is that why you've been so distant?" He asked, breaking the painful stillness. "Because you're leaving me?" 

"No, that's not what it is." It is. 

"Then what, huh? You just choose to drop the bomb now and then leave a day later and expect me to just cope with it? You're way too fucking daft to go to Berangaria in that case, you motherfucking asshole!" Alexander screamed, flinging himself off the bed and hissing at Thomas directly in the face. Tears streamed down his face as he seethed out curses and threw punches and kicks at the air. Thomas felt like he was watching a car crash unfold, and couldn't do anything to stop it. 

Eventually, he just sinks down to the floor, covering his face in his hands and just weeps. It reminds him of all the other countless days and nights Alexander has popped into his life, unable to control the valves behind his eyes and letting everything pour out. He can't count the encounters on his fingers and toes.

"You're all I had left," he croaks out.

"That's not true," Thomas retorts in a last-second effort to try and make things look less hopeless for the both of them. "You have John and Herc, your friends you talk about, right?" Alexander always goes on about the elaborate stories at school on some days, mainly centered around himself and his friends John Laurens and Hercules Mulligan. All that Thomas knows is that John is an outspoken activist and Hercules is a tailor's apprentice, and none of them are ever up to any good. The stories used to be what get Thomas through the day sometimes. 

"John and Herc?" Alexander laughed pathetically. "You ever wonder why I never brought them around to meet you, Thomas? Why they were always miraculously busy with something? You wanna fucking know? It's cause they're not fucking real!" He shouts harder now, and Thomas really wonders how in hell his dad hasn't stormed up yet from the commotion. 

"Oh," is all Thomas could say. "They-They're not?" 

"Nope, just a fantasy I made up to make me feel less lonely and utterly pathetic. Cause I don't have friends, Thomas," Alexander stated, burrowing his head in his hands again while breathing so erratically, one would think he'd pass out. 

"You have me," Thomas blurted. 

"Not anymore."

That hurt. 

Thomas stared down him, eyes wide and sorrowful. "Alexander--"

"Don't," he spat, hoisting himself off the ground and backing up toward the windowsill. "Fucking don't okay, don't even bother looking for me, cause I ain't gonna be there. So now we both get to leave," he finished. He was already out the window by the end of his mini-monologue. He wasn't making much sense, either, but Thomas didn't get any sort of clarification before Alexander hurriedly plummeted himself off the roof. 

He heard a soft "ow" from below, and immediately rushed to the window. 

"Alexander! Are you okay?" He shouted down, trying to push himself farther out the frame to see his (friend? Can he still call him that now?) "Did you break anything?"

After a few long seconds of terrifying silence, Thomas heard the grumble of, "my heart, maybe, but I don't think it was me who broke that." His voice was just as venomous as before, but still a bit shaky because of the fall.

"I'm sorry," Thomas plead quietly.

"Yeah? Well leave 'em for later."

And with that, he was limping off Jefferson property like a bird who lost his wings. 

Thomas was alone now. Completely and utterly alone. He thought of how he could've handled the situation differently, and maybe Alexander would've stayed, or God forbid, supported him for once. But there wasn't a way that wouldn't make him turn away and break connections in furious despair. 

"Every person has their breaking point, I guess," he admitted to the walls. "With the right words, they'll break like glass."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, this was a flop so I'm 99% sure that I'm gonna put this up in the orphanage cause I'm still eh with it rn. sorry folks that somewhat enjoyed it:\\\\\
> 
> ps École de droit Berangaria doesn't exist I just needed to make up some random ass college in France haha (translation is roughly "Berangaria School of Law")


End file.
